Paying One's Respects
by Dictator4Life
Summary: In which Rose lived - kept as a slave by Clogg. Rescued by a mysterious mouse, and unable to return home, she embarks on a journey that can only end in tragedy.


**This fic is pretty dark. Continue at your own peril. Many thanks to everyone who helped me. You know who you are. **

**Disclaimer: Jacques is king, and I am but a lowly vassal.**

* * *

Clogg watched the battle that raged around him, a wide, gleeful grin on his face. Beasts fought and screamed and killed around him, locked in a dance of fear and hatred.

"They'll all die," the stoat muttered with a sickly pleased smile. "They'll see who's master of Marshank. They'll serve me." Another demented laugh. "I 'us their slave, but I'll decide their final resting place!"

His yellow eyes had been fixed on Badrang for the entirety of the battle, so he was the first to notice when he grabbed the warrior mouse's sweetheart and threw her at the wall of the slave compound, where Clogg was hidden. She hit the wall with a painful thud and slid to the ground, unmoving.

The madbeast scuttled out and seized her by the scruff of her neck. He dragged her back into the compound, his eyes glinting with a frightening amusement.

"Looks like I ain't the only one who'll be diggin' graves!"

* * *

The moon was high in the sky, its usual silver glow muted by the smoke of the burning fortress. The coastline was deserted, most of the woodlanders having already left for Starwort and Marigold's ship, the _Waterlily._

However, a young mouse was still trudging doggedly through the wreckage. "Rose! _Rose_!"

Keyla stood with Grumm and Pallum at the gates, watching Brome with a resigned expression and a heavy heart. He straightened and padded toward him, gently grasping his shoulder.

"Lissen, young 'un," he murmured, "You're not goin' to find her."

"How do you know?!" Brome snapped, wrenching away from Keyla's paw. "Rose might still be – " His voice broke.

The otter just stared at him pityingly. "If Rose were still alive, wouldn't she have the sense to answer us?"

Brome seemed to wither.

"I'm sorry, Brome. It's over."

* * *

The fortress was quiet once more. The vermin lay scattered, no woodlander having bothered to dispose of their corpses.

Clogg emerged from the slave compound and surveyed his new stronghold. "Awful messy, ain't they?" he mumbled, and shook with sudden mirth. "And them mouseys call _us _disgusting! Haharr!"

The mad stoat crawled back into the compound, where Rose lay prone. "Wakey, wakey," Clogg hissed, digging his claws into her shoulder. Fury washed through him when she didn't respond. "_I'm _Cap'n, ye traitorous scum, an' ye'll listen ta me!"

Raging, he trampled over the corpses of his fallen shipmates. "Where, where... aha!" He prized a rusty cutlass from the claws of a dead searat.

"Lissen t'yer master!" The flat of the blade whistled down and struck Rose's back with a loud _snap_.

The maid was jolted into consciousness with a muffled scream, lying face down in the dirt. This only encouraged Clogg, who began to rain blows down upon her.

"This is wot 'appens when yew don't obey me!"

"I'm sorry! No more, _please_, no more!" Rose begged, sobbing.

"No back talk!" Clogg said. He bared his teeth at her in a frenzied grin. "No more tongue, no more words! Can't have ye cryin' for 'elp."

The corsair gripped Rose's chin. She clenched her jaw, breathing fast and shallow, and struggled to escape his hold. Clogg, spitting curses, pinched her nose.

_This is how mother used to get me to drink herbal remedies, _Rose thought, strangely detached. _But this isn't for my own good, is it?_

The next scream was much more guttural, and much more wet.

* * *

Rose stumbled down to the water, her captor close behind. She knelt in the ocean and found a patch of seaweed, pressing it to the bleeding stump inside her mouth. She tried not to look at the frothy, scarlet water beneath her.

Clogg grabbed her by the arm and dragged the unfortunate maid back to the fortress. He threw her into the compound, shut the gate, and settled into his wheelbarrow for the night.

* * *

In the nightmarish days that followed, the pair settled into a painful routine. Rose would dig row after row of graves in the early morning. At noon, she would forage for food and collect water, which were stored in several earthenware jars discovered in Badrang's hut. All the while Clogg would be watching, Hisk's old whip clutched in one eager, calloused paw. He did the fishing, believing that Rose would steal them if she caught them herself, and ate them raw.

After Clogg was fed, he sent Rose back to digging graves. She ate nothing until sunset, when he selected the plants he would never eat, even if he was "starvin' enough to eat me own tail raw," and threw them to her. Unfortunately, the stoat was not a picky eater.

Life was hard, but at least Rose knew what to expect. She had begun to sink into that terrible lethargy that convinces beasts that, as long as they do what they're told, no further harm would befall them. She was almost resigned to her fate, having learned her lesson from numerous escape attempts and each subsequent punishment.

One day, Clogg found a casket of grog somewhere in the stronghold, with predictable results.

Rose was sitting quietly in a shaded corner of the compound, munching on a half-rotten stem that she was almost glad she could no longer taste. _I guess I was lucky I didn't bleed to death, _she thought dully. _Why did they leave me behind?_

A stinging crack of the whip drew Rose from her thoughts.

"Ye lazy cur! Ye beetle brained, scummy layabout! Git back t' work!" Clogg roared, clutching a beaker of foul-smelling grog.

Rose stared up at him with teary, petrified hazel eyes. The way the madbeast was looking at her terrified her more than she had ever been in her life – which was no small feat.

Clogg yelled a curse at her and reached for the cutlass that he had taken her voice with. The mousemaid began to hyperventilate and shake uncontrollably. The stoat lunged for her and began to beat her, howling with laughter at her wordless, tormented cries. She curled into a ball. He retaliated by stepping on her tail, breaking it with a crunch.

Rose lay prone under his sword and cried. She wanted her friends. She wanted her family. She wanted Martin.

* * *

A young mouse with sharp brown eyes made his way along the beach. There was a rucksack and a quiver full of arrows slung on his back, and he held an unstrung bow.

Shading his eyes, the mouse scanned for vermin. Instead of the barren coast he'd seen for miles, there was a structure of some sort in the distance.

"A fortress?" he asked himself. His voice was not very deep, customary to most mice, but there was a foreboding hardness to it.

He reckoned it to be less than an hour away, as the crow flies. He turned inland, keeping a wary eye out for foebeasts.

After a while, the young mouse reached the stronghold. He sank into a crouch, bow strung and ready for any sentries, but it soon became apparent that it was unnecessary.

The mouse rose to his footpaws. The gate, once formidable, was charred and broken. The ramparts were deserted. A battle had taken place and these particular beasts had lost – there was no question.

He walked cautiously in, and recoiled at the sight that greeted him. Vermin cadavers, still in battle gear, were strewn about. The scent of rot was almost overpowering.

He wondered why there weren't any gulls.

A scream shattered the ghostly silence.

"Ye lazy cur! Ye beetle brained, scummy layabout! Git back t' work!"

The coarse shout had definitely come from a corsair. The bowmouse was familiar with their lingo.

He stalked in the direction of the vermin on silent paws, body tense with adrenalin and hatred. Peering from behind what seemed to be the kitchen, he beheld a horrifying, infuriating scene.

A fat stoat was beating a frail mousemaid, cackling at her screeches of agony. Fresh blood was speckled liberally on the ground and walls around them.

Swallowing his anger, he raised his bow and pulled the twine taught, calmly took aim, and fired.

The arrow buried itself in the stoat's buttocks. He cried out and spun around, abandoning his victim. When the vermin caught sight of the mouse, he charged with an explosive snarl.

The young mouse leaped on top of a pile of semi-decomposed corpses and clambered onto the roof of the kitchen. The corsair, too heavy to follow, snatched a spear with a shattered shaft from a dead ferret and threw it at him. The mouse dodged with ease.

"Have ye returned to finish the job, mousey? Killin' Badrang's not enough?" he cackled. "Well, guess wot, mousey; I cut out yer songbird's tongue. She ain't singing for yew anymore!"

The stoat tried to haul his considerable bulk up on the roof where he perched, but ended up falling back on his clogged footpaws when his adversary stepped on his paws. The mouse unbalanced him further by dropping down on his shoulders, and he toppled over. The mouse, half-crushed by the stoat, quickly pulled another arrow from his quiver and drove it into the creature's temple. He jerked once, and was still.

With much effort, the young mouse pushed the dead weight off him. He wrinkled his nose at the blood on his tunic, which was already stiff with sweat and sea salt.

He retrieved his rucksack and bow from the roof, and then approached the spot where he had last seen the mousemaid. There was a bloody furrow in the dirt where the maid had dragged herself from harm. She lay in the shade of a compound of some sort. He could tell only from her small, wordless exclamations of pain that she was alive.

The mouse assessed her injuries. Her tail was bent strangely, she was covered with bleeding welts, and she was unconscious.

He carefully covered her with his tunic. She seemed so... small. Fragile. Helpless.

He decided to fetch her some water... and maybe wash his tunic as well.

The bowmouse quickly found the source of a small brook behind the fortress. He watched a leaf get caught in its current and drift into the marshes.

After filling the waterskin in his rucksack, he trotted downstream, where it deepened and widened considerably. Stripping off his tunic, he gave it a rushed rinse, and then shucked off his breeches and jumped in.

He ducked his head underwater a few times and swam around a bit before climbing out. Snapping off a pawful of leaves from a nearby bush, he scrubbed his fur dry, then pulled his trousers back on.

Feeling rejuvenated, he set off for the fortress.

* * *

When Rose regained consciousness, it was like being beaten all over again. It was a process that had become familiar in her time with Clogg. She had come to dread waking up at all.

Hissing in pain, Rose creaked into a sitting position. She yelped and rolled onto her hip, so as to take the weight off her broken tail, and pushed herself up with her better arm.

That was when she caught sight of Clogg.

Rose's hazel eyes widened in equal parts relief and fear at the sight of her tormentor's dead body. She started to cry, appalled by her own joy at another creature's death. _What kind of monster have I become?_

Her sobs soon tapered off, and she collapsed onto her side. She had dreamed of this moment for over a season, and yet she now had no idea what to do.

Her first thought was _home, _but how would she get there, weak, wounded, and unable to speak?

Dark Forest, she was going to die out here.

Rose then noticed the unfamiliar tunic draped over her. _This must belong to the beast who killed Clogg!_

Her first reaction was to flee. Anybeast who could kill Clogg could easily make mincemeat of her. Granted, the tunic wasn't big enough to fit anybeast bigger than a mouse or a mole, but the fact remained that _they had killed Clogg._

However, Clogg had been in the middle of one of his punishments. If they wanted her dead, they probably just could have waited a bit. Clogg's violence had been steadily escalating after the discovery of the grog; he might have killed her right then and there.

The decision was quickly made for her when she found that she couldn't walk more than five paces without dropping like a stone.

She only had to wait ten minutes until a handsome young mouse strode through the once-proud gates of Marshank. Her heart jumped, and then sank; the mouse, not counting his good looks, was nothing like Martin. His eyes were brown instead of gray, and while Martin's eyes were also intense, this mouse had no humor or warmth in his. He was wiry where Martin was broad; his fur was dark where Martin's fur was light.

When he reached her side, he sat beside her and wordlessly held out a water skin. Rose accepted it warily, and sipped hesitantly before throwing caution to the wind and chugging it down, thirst making her greedy.

She returned the empty water skin to him, then touched his paw and stared into his eyes, trying to communicate her thankfulness.

The young mouse seemed perplexed by her actions, but nevertheless spoke to her. "What is your name?"

She stiffened.

He cocked his head at her. "Is something wrong?"

Rose met her rescuer's gaze, and slowly opened her mouth.

* * *

The bowmouse froze in horror. "Did the stoat do this to you?"

The maid nodded in confirmation.

He was taken aback by the surge of fury he felt on her behalf. He was no stranger to anger, but it was always cold, always _useful._ This emotion was hot, not to mention useless; her tormentor was already dead.

The mousemaid buried a nail in the dirt and began to write.

_My name is Laterose of Noonvale. Thank you for saving me._

"It's what I'd do for anybeast, Laterose," he responded.

She gave him a tentative smile. The young mouse surprised himself by almost smiling back.

"I'll get us some food." He reached for his bow. Laterose yelped and tried to scramble away.

"Whoa, there," he said. He put the bow back down.

Laterose took a shuddering breath. _I'm fine_, she wrote. _Food stored in __jars in main building._ _May I_

"Take whatever you need," he interrupted. "You could hurt yourself if you write in the dirt. You can keep the tunic." The mouse handed her his pack, then headed toward where she had indicated, leaving his bow but taking its quiver.

Rose rummaged through it and found a needle and thread. She stripped off her tattered traveling dress and put on the strange mouse's overly large tunic for modesty's sake. She cut through the top half's seams with a small knife plucked from a weasel's pocket. The mousemaid had long since lost any squeamishness in regard to deadbeasts. Rolling cadavers into graves that she had poured unwilling blood, sweat, and effort into had thoroughly removed it.

_Would the old Rose be able to do that? _she pondered, while patching her skirt. _Would she feel pity or fear?_

_I don't. I hate them. Not because they're vermin; not even because they hurt my friends._

_I hate them because I had to dig their graves._

_I'm so selfish._

After reconstructing the bottom half of her bloodstained garment, Rose put it back on and tucked in the shirt. The bowmouse returned a short time later, easily carrying several heavy jars full of foodstuffs.

The pair ate in silence but for the crunches of various vegetables. Rose daydreamed that each snap was one of Clogg's bones. She was both horrified and liberated by her complete lack of remorse for his death.

She soon had to stop, nauseated by having so much to eat after so long with barely any. The mouse quietly went about splinting her tail and bandaging her wounds, moving away whenever she became frightened.

By the time he finished, the sun was low in the sky, staining the sea red and orange. While the days were still warm, the nights were growing steadily colder, so Rose limped around collecting kindling as best she could, and started a fire. The mouse surrendered his bedroll to her, and Rose accepted, too tired and overwhelmed by the day's events for courtesy.

"I'll escort you home. We leave tomorrow, at dawn," he stated.

His generosity was the final straw. Rose began to cry like she never had since she was a babe, great, gasping sobs that she had always muffled during her time with Clogg, knowing that they would only encourage him. She threw herself at the bowmouse and embraced him, crying desperately into his shoulder.

His body, which had stiffened at her sudden movement, relaxed incrementally, and his arms cautiously rose to hold her.

The sat like that until the sky was dark, the moon already on its journey across the heavens.

Rose drew away. His hold tightened for an instant, and then his paws dropped.

_I'm sorry, _she scrawled, her words lit by the fire.

"Don't be."

_What is your _

His paw covered hers, stilling it. Rose stared at him curiously.

For the first time, he smiled. It was almost unnoticeable, but definitely there.

"You can call me Ben."


End file.
